


As I Lay Dying

by princessoftheworlds



Series: Tomione!AUs [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Originals (TV), The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Blood, F/F, F/M, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 23:25:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7012426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessoftheworlds/pseuds/princessoftheworlds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom. The baby vampire one-tenth of her age. </p><p>She cannot even bear to think about their kiss from last night.</p><p>It had been pure lust at first.</p><p>Then something genuine had started to leak into the kiss. </p><p>Some tender affection, light and pure, had found a clutch on her blackened, dark heart, and she swore that, when there was a burst of warmth in the pit of her stomach, some tingling feeling almost like the clichéd butterflies, she was incapable of feeling such things.</p><p>It was all too much, so she pulled away and caught a glimmer of hurt and disappointment in Tom’s eyes, something she was sure that he himself was unware of, before it was covered up by confusion.</p><p>Immediately, that warm, tingly feeling evaporated</p><p>For Tomione Day. Klaroline!AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	As I Lay Dying

**Author's Note:**

> This is a piece for Tomione Day, happening on tumblr.
> 
> For those of you who are unfamiliar with Klaroline, it is a ship between a villain and a supporting character that took The Vampire Diaries by storm. I strongly stand by is an Klaroline Role reversal with Hermione Granger taking the role of Klaus Mikaelson, the Original hybrid, and Tom Riddle taking the role of Caroline Forbes, the baby vampire.
> 
> If you are unfamiliar with Klaroline or The Vampire Diaries, read this! It will (hopefully) clear up some confusion.
> 
> In the universe, vampires, witches, werewolves, hybrids, doppelgangers, and Siphoners exist. Vampires are based on the usual vampire with enhanced speed, strength, senses (etc). They can mind-control (or compel) humans using some eye-trickery, and bites from werewolves (for some reason) are lethal to them. Vampires can walk in the sun with a spelled piece of jewelry or daylight ring. An Original vampire (only three, Hermione, Harry, and Ron) comes from a family, or our beloved Golden Trio, and were the first vampires ever. They are basically enhanced vampires who cannot be compelled but can compel humans. They cannot be killed but can be neutralized by a dagger dipped in the ash of a specific tree (for some reason) stuck in their heart. Sunlight only stings them.
> 
> Witches draw their power from nature and don't use wands. If their last name is used to refer to them (ex. Gaunt wizard), it means that they are descendant of that specific magical bloodline.
> 
> Werewolves turn painfully only on the full moon. Being a werewolf is a magical curse and has to be passed down genetically. To activate it, a person must take a life.
> 
> A hybrid is a werewolf/vampire. They need doppelganger blood to turn into a vampire successfully. Hermione is the Original hybrid, the first one. Her blood can heal vampires of werewolf bites. As a child, she activated her werewolf side, and it was sealed away from her. To reactivate it, she had to sacrifice Pansy, a doppelganger. Now, she needs Pansy's blood.
> 
> A doppelganger is a human who shares the same face with his/her ancestors. Pansy is a doppelganger. They are usually tied to curses. Pansy's ancestor was tied to Hermione's curse, hence, Hermione needed to kill Pansy. 
> 
> A Siphoner is a witch anomaly. They have no magic of their own but can drain and absorb magic from other creatures.
> 
> Read, read, and review.  
> TRIGGERS: Blood, violence, allusions to sex, mentions of suicide, death, mentions of depression/mental illnesses, bisexual main characters, allusions to a love triangle, vampire stuff in general, fangs

"Where is she?" Pansy Parkinson demands with a growing sense of dread. The pacing of her feet back and forth at near supernatural speed is beginning to wear a hole in the luxurious Persian carpet. "We called her _hours_ ago!”

She tugs at her cropped, brunette locks anxiously, turning to face her boyfriend and his brother with pleading doe eyes. Draco grimaces uneasily once Pansy's back is to him, locking identical steel-grey gazes with Abraxas. _What do we do?_ he mouths to his brother.

"She'll come," says Abraxas, mouth pinching together, as he strokes Pansy's back with tenderness. "She'll come." 

There is a low, agonized moan from the couch, and they all swiftly swivel around. Pansy breaks free of Abraxas' embrace and rushes to kneel besides the dying vampire in concern.

“He’s getting worse!” she cries in frustration and tucks a damp lock of dark hair behind Tom’s ear, clinging to his side.

Since he had been bitten by the werewolf, a sheen has risen on his forehead, little droplets of sweat dripping down from his temples to dampen his hair. His charcoal eyes are glazed over, his pupils blown wide, as they hazily focus on the high-vaulted ceiling. Tom's skin has gone ashen, almost of resembling the grey pallor of desiccated vampires, and every few minutes, his body is wracked with tremors, either from the unseen hallucinations he is currently experiencing or the harsh fits of coughing that leave him curled in on his side, still in a state of unconsciousness. 

There is a splatter of blood on the hardwood floor from when Tom’s body rejected the blood bag he had attempted to scarf down before his body fell into this desolate state.

Draco speaks for the first time now. “Pansy, perhaps we should leave Tom to rest for a few minutes. Give him peace while he’s suffering.” His tone is distant and hesitant, eyes sharply focused above Pansy’s head.

Pansy explodes with impatience, her words pouring out in a shriek. “ _Give him peace?_ In case you do not understand, Draco,” his name is growled with hostility, “our _friend_ is lying there, dying of a werewolf bite from our other friend Teddy whose mind is currently being magically-influenced by some evil bitch. Said _bitch_ is nowhere around to cure Tom, even though his current bill of health is entirely _her_ fault.”

“There’s no need for name-calling, _Doppelganger_.”

The open door of the Malfoy Manor swings shut with a slam as a strong gale of wind blows through the room, rattling the window and wrecking Pansy’s and the vampire brothers’ hair.

Moments later, a blurry streak materializes into a gorgeous woman standing before the Malfoy brothers and Pansy.

Hair styled into a faux bob with light brown locks falling in wisps to frame her dainty, heart-shaped face, she hovers stoically in front of Abraxas, full crimson-painted lips twisting into a slight smirk. She is petite and slender, though power strums through her veins and thousand-year-old muscles ripple under smooth, unblemished ivory skin.

She is a killer, a monster, a nightmare, and she hides it under a façade of a nineteen-year-old girl with sparkling caramel eyes, a button nose, and dimpled cheeks.

While Pansy hates the woman with her entire soul and her whole body quivers with hate at the sight of her, she can’t help but admire her dress, an off-shoulder black, and shoes, black floral pumps.

“Finally!” Pansy spits to the vampire, glacial eyes boring a hole into her head. “We called you an hour ago.”

The woman shrugs nonchalantly. “Got stuck in some traffic.” She tilts her head to the side, smiling angelically though her eyes remain void of any emotion or tell.

No one bothers to call her out on her bullshit; Draco’s heart is in his throat, and Abraxas is one moment away from grabbing Pansy and flashing out the window.

“This him?” the woman asks causally, lifting a single elegant finger to point towards the couch-ridden Tom who has now become comatose.

Draco nods silently before any drama gets in the way of Tom’s cure.

Tracing the same finger over the soft flesh of her wrist, Hermione Granger draws a sharp fingernail across her skin, exposing a major artery. Beads of blood well up from the shallow cut, gleaming the same crimson as her lips.

As the wound begins to heal, Hermione takes a seat on the loveseat, gently pulling Tom’s slacken head into her lap. She hovers her wrist, now healed and unblemished, above Tom’s pale lips, twisting her arm to allow her blood to drip onto his mouth.

Veins under his drowsy eyes ripple up red and black, and his eyes snap open as they fill with blood. There is a flash of white as his fangs drop and sink into Hermione’s skin. Tom clenches her wrist possessively, curling his body around it.

Hermione cradles Tom’s head, biting her lower lip with extreme pressure to hide the pleasure she feels at the tug of her lifeblood being pulled from her veins. Small jolts of ecstasy dart through her body, and she knows that her pleasure is being shared with Tom when he moans quietly into her skin, his eyelids fluttering shut.

When she begins to experience light-headedness, she gently wrenches her wrist away, watching as the two neat puncture wounds begin to close up.

Tom releases a silent whimper of complaint.

Sliding to her feet, she eyes the Malfoy brother and their doppelganger. Pansy appears relieved, her eyes almost gratuitous towards the woman. Abraxas smiles grimly, though his eyes flash warily. Only Draco shows utter distaste, glaring at her suspiciously.

“Your vampire is healed,” Hermione tells them. “Be sure that you lot stay careful around werewolves,” her eyes flash yellow as a reminder to them of her wolf heritage, “I may not be around next time with my miraculous blood-cure.” She turns swiftly on her heel, not before sneaking a forlorn glance at the recovering vampire on the couch.

Tom’s eyes open again, the fog clearing as life returns to his body.

Then, as swiftly as she came, thousand-year-old Original hybrid Hermione Granger vanishes into the silent night.

~

He finds her the next day when she’s fangs-deep into her latest meal.

When the sound of his footsteps echo through the open alley, she breaks free of her victim and grins up at Tom with a single stream of blood running down the side of her chin, eyes bright and inquisitive.

“You certainly look better,” Hermione states, lilting accent masking the bluntness of her words, “but, considering that the last time we met, you were dying on a gaudy loveseat, that’s understandable.”

Tom coughs abruptly to give himself time to formulate a response. Finally, he replies, “Yes. Thank you about that, by the way. Healing me.”

She shrugs distractedly. “My pleasure.”

There is a moment of silence that stretches on for unbearably long before Tom speaks again.

“You have some blood on your chin.” He gestures at the stream of blood with a flourish of his hand.

“Oh.” She carelessly wipes the blood away with a slender finger. “That’s better.” Her lips, pale pink compared to the previous scarlet, turn up at the corners to form a satisfied smile.

Besides her now-clean face, her feeding had been completely clean, no blood leaking from the deep incisions on her victim’s neck, her control hardened from a thousand years of experience.

When she notices him staring at her, she laughs. “What?”

“Nothing,” he tells her.

The smile that spreads across her face is so genuine and pure that Tom’s taken aback. For a moment, she resembles a seventeen-year-old girl, expression relaxed and caramel eyes full of mirth, one who can be flirting with an older guy in an alley.

 _She’s a monster,_ he reminds himself. _She wants to turn your friend Pansy into a walking blood bag._

“Would you care for some B positive?” Hermione drags the girl she had been feeding on in front of Tom, tugging on her blond curls gently to reveal the pale expanse of her neck.

He takes a half-step backwards in befuddlement, focusing on a prominent vein under the girl’s skin as it pulses in time with her shallow gasps of breath. His charcoal gaze narrows in onto it as his face transforms, veins pulsing below his eyes and fangs unleashing. But, in a moment, his face has returned to normal, skin smooth and pale again. He gulps hesitantly, and Hermione watches as his Adam’s apple bobs below the skin of his throat.

She rolls her eyes, predatory gaze disappearing as she wrinkles her nose in distaste. “Don’t tell that you drink bagged blood like the rest of your precious idiots. What a waste of fangs,” she remarks with a grimace.

“I would take you up on your offer,” Tom parries smoothly, “but I was in the mood for something different.”

Hermione watches carefully, confusion evident in her heavy stare, as he turns the girl to face him, locking gazes.

His pupils enlarge as he holds the girl under his compulsion. “You will go home and not remember what happened tonight. You stayed home, because you felt unwell. You will cover the wound on your neck with a bandage, because it was a mosquito bite you couldn’t stop scratching.”

Tom releases the girl and steps out of her way, allowing her to stumble out of the alley. When he faces back to Hermione, the Original hybrid is snorting with laughter.

“A mosquito bite?” she exclaims in disbelief, thick accent contorting her words.

He bites his lip, and she eyes his action quickly before her eyes dart back to his face. “You’d be surprised what humans are willing to let their feeble mind believe.”

“Not a fan of humans, sweetheart?”

At the term of endearment, Tom’s eyes narrow. “We’ve all been human once, and though they sometimes leave something to admire, vampires are superior to them in every way. I simply acknowledge that.”

Hermione hums thoughtfully. “Your friends would disagree with that.”

“The Malfoy brothers may be older than me, but they have spent their hundred-something years pining after two girls who share a face. I am their friends, and hence, I abide by their rules while I am their guest. But I don’t have to concede with their beliefs.”

“I suppose.” She flicks a chocolate lock from her youthful face with casualness. “I could use a drink,” Hermione sighs. She begins to make her way out of the alley, boots clicking against the stone. “Coming?”

Hermione turns back, and their gazes lock, caramel clashing with charcoal.

“You’re the enemy,” Tom admits. “But you’re _their_ enemy.”

He follows her out of the alley.

~

They make quite the stunning couple strolling into the bar, side-by-side. 

Tom, supernaturally-magnetic, with dark waves of hair parted neatly, chiseled features, gaunt cheekbones, lean and muscular frame hidden by a charcoal Henley, jeans, and scruffy black boots.

Hermione, naturally-beautiful, dressed similarly in a black blouse, black leather jacket, grey jeans, and black combat boots, hair falling in loose waves down her back.

They attract many glances, either jealous, lustful, or admiring, from crowds of people as they make their way to the bar, Hermione settling into a barstool Tom pulls out for her.

“Your oldest and most expensive bourbon,” she tells the bartender who is barely of legal drinking age herself.

The bartender, Pansy’s best friend Daphne Greengrass, glares at Hermione with a twisted frown, whirling around to face Tom in concern. “What are you doing with the _she-bitch_? Has she compelled you? I can call Draco or Abraxas if you need help.”

Before Tom can answer, Hermione intervenes, scowling, “Your friend is here of his own free will and is currently keeping this _she-bitch_ , as you so eloquently put it, from draining your beloved doppelganger friend, Pansy, dead of her precious blood.”

Daphne is about to spit back a threat before Tom places a calming hand on her arm.

“Relax, Daphne,” he drawls. “I _am_ here of my own free will. She invited me for a drink, and I wasn’t going to decline and have her tear out my heart.”

“Okay, fine.” Daphne’s tension disappears, and she takes a step back, though she still eyes Hermione suspiciously.

Hermione smiles serenely at her, though, on the inside, she bristles at the implication that she would rip out Tom’s heart. _She’s not a monster._  

Though, she supposes, that’s what they all see her as. _The villainess who murdered the friend everyone rallied around, despite the fact that Pansy came back to life, for her own selfish gain and is now attempting to drain Pansy of her blood._

A monster.

Spending a thousand years feeling incomplete and alone will turn you into a monster.

“I’ll still need to see some ID,” Daphne demands grumpily, swinging her dark ponytail over her shoulder.

Surprisingly enough, Hermione is compliant, fishing out a driver’s license to Daphne who examines it for a moment before handing it back with jerky movements. She leaves to fetch their drinks.

“Why do you have a fake ID?” Tom asks in amusement, smirk tugging at his lips. 

Her eyes narrow at his enjoyment. “Looking like an eternal nineteen-year-old doesn’t help when you are a thousand years old. This,” she waves the ID card, held firmly between two slender fingers, “opens some doors.”

He attempts not to laugh, but a chuckle escapes from his pressed lips.

“Stop it,” she grumbles. “How old are you anyway?”

“Twenty-three,” Tom responds gleefully.

Daphne returns, and their conversation pipes down as she sets a bottle of bourbon and two glasses between the two vampires.

Once Daphne disappears into the backroom, Hermione helps herself to a generous amount of bourbon, taking small sips of the liquor as she savors the feel of the burn down her throat. Tom, on the other hand, downs a whole glass all at once.

Hermione quirks a perfectly-shaped eyebrow at him. “You must have needed that,” she remarks casually.

“You have _no_ idea,” Tom moans, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Almost dying really takes a toll on you.”

“I wouldn’t know,” she states quietly in response. “I’m practically unkillable.” She drains her glass distractedly.

“So you don’t remember,” he questions softly, expression inquisitive, “what it feels like to die?”

Immediately, she reacts, her eyes hardening and face becoming void of emotion. “If we were to discuss that,” she replies in a steely voice, “I would drain this fine establishment of all their alcohol and then some.” Changing the subject, Hermione asks in a brighter tone, “So how’d you die?”

“Oh, you know, the usual, Nazi torture.”

“You were a soldier?”

“Yes.” He fishes a set of dog tags from under his Henley, pulls them off, and hands them to Hermione.

She traces the engravings on the rusted metal.

_Tom M. Riddle_

There’s his army rank and serial number, his date of birth (December 31, 1921), and his place of birth (London).

“This is it,” Tom tells her bitterly. “My entire life story all in one metal tag.”

Handing his chain back, she demands, “Tell me.”

“Tell you what?”  
“Everything.” She leans over the counter and grabs another of bourbon, clicking her tongue triumphantly when she pours herself another glass of bourbon. When she faces Tom again, she finds him gazing hungrily at the skin exposed on her midriff where her shirt rose up.

He tears his eyes away, staring at her face with an intensity that makes her shiver. “There’s not much to tell.” Tom takes a swig straight from the bottle, setting it down with a thud and wiping some orphanage in London. Got away from there when I was sixteen. Hunted down my parents to find out my mum was dead as a doorbell. Died when I was born. She was some minor Austrian royalty. My dad was some fancy nobleman, tenth in line for the royal throne, something like that. I was unwanted, of course, despite my royal birth and noble blood. I was a bastard child.”

 “Something we both share in common,” Hermione remarks dully.

“Bastard blood?” he repeats in surprise.

“No.” She grins, teeth gleaming and pointed, fangs just visible below her soft lips. “Unwanted.” Hermione coughs. “Right. So, carry on.”

“Yes. So the war starts, and I steal some fancy government job ‘cause everyone’s joining the army. At twenty, in 1943, they call for more soldiers, so I enlist myself. Spend time fighting at the frontlines in France, Italy, some different places. In 1944, I’m captured in enemy territory. I spend a year being experimented on, some twisted up shit like that. I barely remember it. They’re trying to create super soldiers or something. Somehow, they get their hands on vampire blood.”   

She’s frowning now. “Yes. I remember that. My brother Harry was horrified. He personally slaughtered some vampires who aligned themselves with the Nazi cause. They donated blood, lots of it.”

“They inject me with vampire blood. I heal up, feel better than I have in months. A few hours later, they snap my neck, and I wake up in transition. They underestimate me, you see.” Tom smiles wolfishly, eyes dark, black. “I was a survivor; I was smarter than they thought. When I wake up, I play dead. They’re horrified, think it didn’t work so they attempt to force-feed me some guard’s blood.”

“Horrible mistake?” Hermione guesses.

He nods. “Don’t really remember what happened that day, but incident reports from when some Allied troops stumbled upon the base described it as a sea of blood, a demon’s playground. I made it back to London somehow and spent the next seventy-one years wandering the world. Somewhere along the way, I meet Draco and Abraxas.”

Hermione whistles. “That’s quite some story.”

The mood in their quiet little bubble has taken a turn for the ugly.

Running a single hand through her soft hair, she hums thoughtfully, “I spent the French Revolution in Louis XVI’s court.”

His expression becomes incredulous. “Really?”

“That was a tremendous waste of blood.” Hermione laughs, a musical chiming sound that is at odd with her wicked reputation. “Robespierre was a bloody loon. Pun not intended.”

He laughs, deep and low in his throat.

They spend the next couple hours trading stories and finishing bottles of bourbon.

Hermione marvels at the fact that she hasn’t been this inebriated since the eighteenth century. She can feel a numbness begin to take over her body.

“I’m bored!” she complains loudly to Tom, taking a look around the bar. It is almost completely empty, except for a few questionable characters.

By now, he has rolled up the sleeves of his Henley, and she admires the wiry muscles of his forearms and, as clichéd as it sounds, his smoldering gaze.

She’s met thousands of men, a lot richer, more attractive, or more power, slept with more than half of them, but, for some strange reason, Hermione feels an odd kinship to this handsome baby vampire.

“There’s not much I can do about that,” Tom replies dryly, watching her pout and laughing when she scowls at him.

But, as if the answer to her complaints, a middle-aged man, dressed in terrible flannel, shoves past her to steal their bottle of bourbon.

“Hey!” she exclaims, secretly overjoyed for someone to confront.

“Hey.” Tom grabs the man’s collar as he retreats with the bottle. “Apologize to the lady, mate,” he exaggerates his accent, “and leave our bottle behind.” He shoots a sly look at Hermione.

The man in flannel growls up at Tom. “I don’t know about that, pretty boy. This is a bar. I’m just taking what I want. As for your lady,” he scans Hermione from head-to-toe with a lecherous gaze, “if she wants a better man, she can join me and my friends in the corner.”

Hermione rolls her eyes but plays along. “Tom,” she squawks in false disgust, taking on a Midwestern accent, “you can’t just let this man talk to me like that!”

“Apologize to the lady,” Tom orders with a hardened tone.

“Nah.” The man takes a swig of their bourbon but then spits it at the ground. “What is this shit? You drink this nasty crap?”

Some bourbon splatters across her boots and the cuffs of her jeans. She bristles, smiling politely at the man. “Oh,” she replies in her normal voice, allowing disgust to bleed into her words, “you shouldn’t have done that.”

Before the man can even blink, Hermione has slid from her stool and pinned his head to the counter, arms twisted behind his back.

“That was rude,” she whispers into his ear cruelly, Tom watching on interestedly, “and you ruined my shoes. These were worth half your yearly salary.”

She releases him, and the man stumbles backwards dazedly. Hermione squats to the ground to clean what she can off her boots.

There is a rush of air, and then a crunch of glass.

Hermione straightens up quickly, whirling around with vampire speed.

The same man had attempted to bash Hermione’s head in with his foot while she was bent over, and Tom had smashed the bourbon bottle over his head.

Enraged at the sight of their comatose friend on the ground, the group of five men from the corner rush at them, yelling.

Hermione and Tom share identical malevolent smirks before turning their attention back to the men.

The first Hermione grabs by the collar and, using his momentum, smashes his head onto the counter, allowing him to slip to the ground.

_This is too easy._

But this is the violence she was craving.

She feels alive, undead heart racing, blood pumping through her veins, as she catches another man’s punch in her hand and steps back quickly to avoid the swing of a glass shard.

Kicking the man in the ribs results in the sound of several bones shattering and the man himself crashing into the wall.

Tom has already disabled two men who lie on the grimy floor, moaning and clutching their broken appendages. 

The final man attacks him from behind, sinking a shard into his shoulder.

Tom freezes, and for a heartbeat, the man does the same.

Then the vampire rips the shard from his shoulder, tip covered with blood, and drops it to the floor.

Then Tom grabs the human, and with an inhuman roar, tosses him across the room where he clatters into a bunch of tables and falls unconscious immediately.

When he looks up, he finds Hermione staring at him with a predatory gaze.

“Impressive,” she comments dryly before whooshing out of the bar.

He follows her, finally pinning Hermione against a wall in the same alley.

They stare at each other for moments, chests heaving, his breathing heavy.

 _As a vampire, he does not have to breath at all._ Yet he does.

Tom smashes his lips against Hermione who immediately draws him closer by tangling her fingers brutally in his hair.

They kiss with the ferocity that only vampires can have.

There is pure animalistic lust in their embrace but also a strange, distinct connection.

He wedges a knee between her thighs, and she grinds down on that as one of his hands clutches at her waist.

Their lips wrench apart for a moment, and instantly, Tom feels a loss of warmth. He sneaks a glance at Hermione.

The expression on her face can only be described as horrified. She gapes at him in bemusement, and Tom bristles, his face becoming closed off.

He should have known that entangling with the Original hybrid was a moronic idea. _He let down his walls to the most powerful creature on the planet, exposed himself almost completely._

But her eyes tell a different story. They are agonized and uncertain, melancholic really.

Tom is shoved against the wall in a panic, and then Hermione disappears in a blur.

~

The pounding in her head, like someone has taken a power drill to her skull, is agonizing, and, in response, Hermione burrows deeper into her blanket.

Sometime during the night, she had tangled herself amongst the sheets on her bed and kicked half of the mess off to the ground. Her hands are twined in her silk of her pillowcases.

The ache in her skull is too much; she must ground herself.

Hermione’s hands curl into claws, and, before she can control her strength, the Egyptian cotton tears under her brutal grip. 

 _Control._ Control is key.

She starts with what she knows to be true, cold hard facts that cannot be removed for her mind.

Simple facts because complexity can cave a mind in. She’s seen it happen in vampires far too gone.

_My name is Hermione Granger._

True.

_I am seventeen._

True-ish.

_I was born a thousand years ago._

_I was born in September._

_I am a vampire._

_I am also a werewolf._

_That makes me a hybrid, the Original hybrid._

_My brothers are Harry Potter and Ron Weasley._

_We are all vampires. We are the Original vampires._

_I drink blood. Human blood._

Blood. She needs blood. That thought’s enough to get her going.

Hermione rolls out of the bed with an uncharacteristic whimper and pads to her mini-fridge, feet bare against the frigid hardwood, though the temperature does not bother her as a vampire. She fetches a bottle of blood, B positive again, pressing the cool surface to her irascible eyes.

Opening the bottle, she freezes, taking a moment to consider the irony.

Yesterday she had complained to Tom about the pesky little blood bag habit; now, she finds herself doing the same, though she’ll make an exception in the current situation.

She tosses the entire bottle back, savoring the thick liquid and its slightly sweet taste, although she finds herself grimacing at the slight stale aftertaste.

The blood aids in clearing the fog from her head a little, though not much.

She hasn’t gotten this drunk in over two centuries. This is a record for even her, and she knows that Tom will be in even worse shape than she is.

 _Tom._ The baby vampire one-tenth of her age.

She cannot even bear to think about their kiss from last night.

It had been pure lust at first.

Then something genuine had started to leak into the kiss.

Some tender affection, light and pure, had found a clutch on her blackened, dark heart, and she swore that, when there was a burst of warmth in the pit of her stomach, some tingling feeling almost like the clichéd butterflies, she was incapable of feeling such things.

It was all too much, so she pulled away and caught a glimmer of hurt and disappointment in Tom’s eyes, something she was sure that he himself was unware of, before it was covered up by confusion.

Immediately, that warm, tingly feeling evaporated.

She panicked, shoved him away.

Hermione barely remembers stumbling through the woods, attempting to avoid humans for the fear that she would uncontrollably lash out, and sneaking in through her window.

For all purposes of retaining sanity, she decides, a confrontation with Tom Riddle should be avoided today.

Freshly showered, Hermione still does not feel up to her usual standards, so she dresses with care. Navy, long-sleeved chiffon dress with floral detailing up from the hem. Simple grey suede wedges. She lets her hair down in her natural, wild curls.

Only then when she feels fully-composed does she wander downstairs into the dining room.

There she finds Teddy Lupin sitting on a barstool at the island, sipping blood slowly from a crystal goblet, glaring at the window as if he can will it to shatter.

Since she has sired him, Teddy has let go of the habit of dying his hair vibrant colors, and it has now grown out into a caramel riot of curls that is almost endearing when coupled with his soft hazel eyes.

He doesn’t show any indication of noticing her in the doorway, but she knows his hybrid hearing allowed him to locate her by the sound of her footsteps.

“Where were you two nights ago?” she asks him, softening her tone to evaluate his sudden source of rage.

“ _Where were you_?” he spews back grumpily. “You’ve been gone a week.”

“Where were you, Edward?” Hermione repeats curtly, allowing authority to bleed into her words to remind him that _she is the Alpha wolf in this house._

“Out.” He elaborates upon her frown. “I went out to feed.”

_Liar._

Her anger surges out of the blue, almost upturning her calm control. She bites her tongue back. “Then why was I summoned back by the Doppelganger and your two Malfoy great-uncles of the undead to heal their baby vampire friend?”

Teddy’s eyes widen a fraction, and his scowl is immediate. “ _That’s_ why you returned? To heal _that_ bastard?” He bows his head, whispering, “I can’t believe it.”

She curls her fingers into claws by her side slowly before unfurling her fingers. She repeats this several times; her fangs are suddenly itching to take a bit out of someone’s throat.

“ _Never mind that_ ,” she orders gruffly. “Why did you bite Riddle?”

“He followed me into the alley and then compelled my victim to leave. He told me that I shouldn’t be so obvious, that it was irresponsible to be feeding in such broad daylight. I told him to fuck off, and when he didn’t, I bit him.” Without realizing that his confession only has seemed to fuel Hermione’s temper, Teddy whines, “Where did you go? I had nothing to do. I didn’t know what to do.”

She ignores his question, her eyes morphing amber. “You do not bite vampires in broad daylight nor do you feed unless you want a sudden stake through your heart. Tom Riddle was correct in intervening.”

He leaps to his feet at her statement, expression crestfallen. “Why are you defending him? I was hungry. It’s not my fault.” Teddy pouts petulantly.

Feed up and barely able to restrain herself, Hermione snatches the glass from his hands and smashes it to the ground where the blood pools around the shards, wasted. “Leave,” she demands as the tips of her fangs begin to slide past her upper lip.

“What?” He takes a step back, startled, as his eyes dart around nervously.

“ _Leave!_ ” Hermione screeches violently, and Teddy disappears in a blur.

“Huh?”

There is a blond frat brother stumbling through the other doorway, rubbing sleep from his bleary eyes. “What’s going on?” he murmurs dazedly.

“Nothing.” She smirks maliciously, veins appearing under her eyes. “ _But I’m hungry_.”

The boy glances up in time to catch her vampire features, dark eyes and lengthy fangs, and attempts to call for help, though that cry is silenced when he finds himself pinned to the wall, her fangs sunk in his throat.

She tears deeper at his flesh until her fangs hit a major artery, and a bubble of fresh blood bursts across her tongue. Hermione moans in euphoria at the coppery tang and shifts to find another vein before she is savagely ripped from her meal and pinned against the same wall, throat being squeezed impossibly tightly.

“ _What the fuck_?” comes a familiar aggravating voice before Ron appears in her vision, leaning all his weight into his grip. “That was my boyfriend!”

“Pity.” Hermione flashes her younger brother a cruel smile, blood dripping off her fangs and smeared around her delicate mouth. “He was a convenient meal.”

Ron growls, though he doesn’t release her. “You _always_ do this. You intentionally ruin people’s lives simply for your own satisfaction.” His pale skin is almost as red as his fiery hair.

She shrugs.

“You couldn’t be happy, so you decided that _no one_ could be happy!” Ron exclaims blindly, never noticing her flinch. “Well, newsflash: You don’t rule our lives!”  
“No, Ron,” Hermione agrees. “I don’t,” her tone hardens, “but this is my house, and, therefore, you should live by my rules.”  
Ron chuckles bitterly. “Of course, _my queen_.”

“Tread carefully, my dear,” she snarls, “or else I may be forced to daggered you again.” Clawing at his grip, she quickly snaps his wrists, and Ron growls in pain. She shoves him backwards before standing and straightening her dress.

He steadies himself as his wrists heal. “Again with the fucking _dagger_ threats. Have you nothing new in those slippery hands of yours?” Ron hisses quietly. “Where is Harry? I haven’t seen him since you _daggered him_ for attempting to turn his lover Cedric into a vampire.”

“Oh, that’s rich!” she shouts at him. “This is all coming from the little boy who attends high school with weak humans. Tell me! What do you see when you look at them? Do you see food or some puppets to string along in your pathetic dream of a _human life_? Do you hope that a boy or girl will fall hopelessly in love with you as you have the last thousand years of your life?”

Ron unleashes his fangs with a snarl of anger. “You’ve killed every one of my lovers for the last thousand years!”

“I was trying to protect you. Protect _our family_!”

He scoffs. “Protect us from _them._ No, no, no! You’ve got it all switched. _We_ needed to be protected from a little orphaned girl who came and tore my family asunder. _We need protection from you!_ ”

Hermione lunges at him, fangs out, but Ron ducks out of the way, zooming out of the house through the side door.

Hermione notices that his school bag is gone from the corner Ron had set it down in.

She casts her senses around the house to realize that Teddy has gone to school too, snuck out while she was distracted.

_Why did she not hear him?_

Overcome by a new source of anger, she waits for minutes before heaving Teddy’s barstool into the marble counter with an inhuman roar and watches as it is reduced to rumble.

~

As it turns out, avoiding a baby vampire is harder said than done, especially when he turns up straight at your front door.

Tom Riddle raps sharply on the door of her mansion thrice times, _one_ , _two_ , _three_.

Far up in her study, Hermione frowns, able to hear the slow beat of her undead visitor’s heart but unable to truly identify him.

She pauses, letting her werewolf senses engage with her surroundings.

A masculine scent. Familiar to her. The chemical tang of acrylic paint. A faint but stale metallic scent of blood. Whiffs of cardamom, cedar wood, and mandarin oranges.

 _Clive Christian_ , her brain helpfully supplies. _The cologne that the last of Ron’s lovers heavily-applied._

It had taken weeks to clear that stench from the inside of the mansion, especially with Hermione’s delicate senses.

No, this user has applied the cologne more artfully, with a light and experienced hand.

It smells like- _Tom._

Hermione darts from her study and blurs down the stair before her brain can comprehend her last thought.

When she is mere moments from the door, she halts in her quick stride.

She is the Original hybrid; she is a thousand years old. Hermione is the most powerful creature to ever walk this earth, and she _will not_ bow to the whim or beck and call of a child.

Her flustered mindset evaporates immediately, and she opens the door.

“Yes?”

His response is immediate _and unexpected._ “Come with me.”

Her face becomes slack, and if Tom had not been beginning to learn her tells, he would not have recognized the slight twitching of her lips as an indication of her bewilderment. “What?” she demands. “Why?” Briefly, she forgets who she should be and who she is conversing with. Eyes narrowing and lips pursing into a frown, she asks childishly, “Why should I listen to you?”

“Come with me. I want to show you something.”

So taken aback as she is, Hermione’s palms begin to slick with something, feeling gummy. Her hearts thuds in her chest, still at the slow pace of death, but each beat echoes in the dim of her peripheral hearing.

Regaining control of her emotions, she frowns indecisively, hands tucked behind her back, careful not to wipe them on the chiffon of her dress. She wills her heart to stop pounding, but it will not. “Why?” She raises her head aloofly, chin pointed towards Tom, skin around her neck pulled taut. “Why should I listen to you?”

Despite the steel in her eyes, iron in her words, and armor around her heart, Tom is undeterred. “I want to show you something,” he repeats solemnly.

Hermione cocks her head to the right, assessing him.

His expression is earnest, mouth set grimly, but there is hope in his mercurial eyes, a flicker that wavers but has not died.

There it is again, a flourish of warmth in the pit of her stomach, so alien to the rest of her.

Hermione does her best to ignore it, quashing it down, as she concentrates on the brilliant sky above Tom’s head.

Finally, she sighs, hoping against all hope that she will not come to regret this moment. “Fine,” she agrees glumly.

Tom’s lips quirk into a miniscule grin before his face returns to its relaxed expression. “Brilliant,” he states with slight enthusiasm, accent curling around the end syllable of the word.

Her heart _does not_ flutter. _It does not._

“Right,” she coughs as the silence becomes overpowering. “I’ll be right down. I should change then.” She flashes back into the house.

 _But you are fully dressed_ dies down on Tom’s tongue as he realizes that it is just an excuse to get away from him.

She needs a moment to compose herself.

He’ll give her that time.

In mere seconds she is back, and Tom has to restrain himself from gaping at her.

“What?” she quips, oddly enough, with a nervous undertone.

“Nothing.” Tom’s lips ache with the force of holding back a remark about irony.

Though the Original hybrid is dressed like a quintessential teenage girl (black button-up and denim shorts), Tom knows that if he makes that remark, his heart will be likely the first thing to go.

“Let’s go.”

Before she can protest, Tom’s slender artist fingers have wrapped around her delicate wrist, and he pulls her into the blistering heat of the sun and the world blurs around them.

~

The world finally solidifies as Tom lurches to a stop before he smashes into a tree, slipping and crashing to the ground, losing control of his vampire speed as he has not in quite a few decades.

He manages not to allow a severe blush to spread over his alabaster skin for making a fool of himself in front of Hermione who is superior to him in all things vampire, and he is proud. Or is proud until he hears a snicker from behind him that explodes into a fit of giggles.

They are isolated, surrounded by nothing but trees spreading into miles before the meadow full of lovely wild flowers and the large quarry of crystal water, and, hence, that burst of laughter can come from none other than Hermione Granger.

Indeed, when he whirls around, he sees the infamous hybrid doubled over in laughter, body shaking, eyes hazy with mirth.

“Yes, yes,” he drawls lazily, strolling up to her. “Let’s make fun of the infant vampire.”

Hermione’s chuckle breaks off, and she straightens, attempting to school her face into a void expression.

Tom deems it unsuccessful when he can spot the twitching of her lips that stretch out into a stunning grin.

When Hermione smiles, it is so radiant that it makes him forget what they are.

Then reality comes calling, and Tom realizes his mistake.

_His heart yearns to have the gift of spending every single moment of his immortal life looking at her, the sun that beckons him, the moon, without the daily reminder of their body counts, of her body counts, and the fact that she is supposed to be a monster._

A monster, a murder, a nightmare comes ringing the familiar tune. _Pansy’s words_ which drift through Tom’s ears every single day he sees Hermione Granger and not the Original Hybrid.

“I have a proposition,” he blurts without proper thought.

Hermione blinks slowly, staring at him with an owlish expression.

Composing himself, Tom explains, “We both remember yesterday night. We both remember the connection we felt. We both understand why the events transpired after we left the bar.”

She bites her lip nervously at his veiled reference to their kiss. “Yes. So?”

“Let us spend the day together. Forget our backgrounds, where we come from, what we’ve been through.”

Her response comes as a surprise simply because it was not the response he expected.

Her hesitance is subtly hidden. “Our backgrounds, where we come from, what we’ve been through. They are what shape us. They have become a part of ourselves. They cannot be forgotten.”

“Pretend. We can pretend…”

“To be what? Weak, easily-manipulated humans?” She is sharp in her astonishment, her glower spoiling the beauty of her features.

Tom snaps, “No. What we truly are. Who we truly are beneath our ridiculous facades.”

She laughs cruelly. “What façade?” Hermione spreads her arms out, placing herself on display. “This is me. I am who I am.”

His next words are quiet, concise, and focused. “I may not have the thousand years of experience that you have, but I understand my impulse when I begin to treat and want someone as to be my equal or more, or to be their equal or more. I understand that impulse, not flee in the mouth of it, and face it head on.” Tom’s face has closed off now, his eyes hard, glittering stones. “I will have you without armor, Hermione Granger, or not at all.”

Quietly and quickly, she ducks her head, allowing her loose hair to fall as a curtain and shield her momentarily from the world. When she emerges back to the world, there is a surge of quick emotions displayed openly on her face, uncertainty, insecurity, bewilderment, and wide-eyed fear, but that is all gone before she faces Tom with blank eyes and a set smile. “I will give you one day.”

He gives her a rough nod, appreciative of the brief glimpse into her mind, and settles into the wild grass below his shoes. “Sit.” He pats the scratchy weeds besides him to entice the hybrid.

Reluctantly, she slides down in perch next to him in the grass, long legs curling in behind her. “What’s your evil plan, Tom Riddle? To talk?”

He shakes his head, briefly, solemnly. “Not to talk. To listen. To each other.”

There is a moment of pause before he is speaking again, voice quiet and rough before the melancholic silence of nature. “When I was a boy at Wool’s Orphanage, I was quite reclusive and isolated. No one would talk to me, and I liked it that way. Kept it that way. The other children feared me. Say one wrong word against me, and they would find strange things happening. Their books would set on fire. Their possessions would float away in front of their eyes. Little things that they claimed was Devil’s work.”

Hermione sucked air in through her teeth in realization. “You were a wizard before you were turned.”

“A Gaunt wizard."

“A Gaunt wizard?” she repeated, bewildered. “The Gaunts were the most powerful witch bloodline in Europe in the 1920s. They were Austrian witch royalty! I tried to recruit one to help in breaking my curse. Bloody bitch gave me the worst aneurysm I had received in years! Merope Gaunt was forgettable, certainly duller than any of her noble ancestors, though her spells were remarkable.”

“Merope Gaunt,” Tom remarks dryly, “was my mother.”

“You must have been quite the powerful wizard,” Hermione whispers softly.

“Yes,” he scoffs bitterly, “so powerful that when I was eleven, barely even coming into my powers, I caused a miniature earthquake in London. That was it. Soon, I received a visit from some men who claimed that Mrs. Cole, the orphanage matron, had contacted them to aid me.” His words are dull, spoken from long ago, detached. “They channeled my power, siphoned it away little by little, until all my magic was drained from my core. They stole from me my birthright, all I had for myself. They were men from Gellert Grindelwald, the regent wizard of London, under orders from Grindelwald and my doting grandfather who I had never meet, Marvolo Gaunt. The man whose name I carried condemned to a fate that I would not wish upon anyone.”

She speaks solemnly and quickly, words spilling from her plump lips with unfamiliarity. “I never met my parents either. All they had ever given me was my name and my heritage. I grew up already feeling misplaced, which was never helped-” There is an abrupt halt as she realizes that her short speech is treading into territory she never enters except alone. Her lips press together, and she whips her head to the side, refusing to speak again.

The world falls silent around them, Tom’s mind at war of how to proceed.

He is spared by Hermione stretching to her feet, gracefully and lithe like a panther. “Swapping sob stories was wonderful, but I really must be heading back before Ron finds my lack of presence as permission to burn our mansion to ash.” She smiles, but he recognizes this smile.

_How familiar is he to this volatile hybrid that he can recognize her moods?_

Her lips are stretched fully, crinkles at the corners of her eyes predictably missing. A glimpse of a fang slips stark white against her rosy mouth.

When Hermione turns to leave, Tom blanks and tugs at her wrist, pulling her back to the ground and pinning her underneath him.

The impact of her back hitting the ground forces air out of her lungs with a _whoosh_ , and she hisses up at him with eyes that are slowly coloring amber.

Hermione’s legs wrap around his waist, squeezing with the strength of a boa constructor, and she flips them until he is the one pinned to the ground beneath her as she straddles his lower torso.

“Never attack me, ever again,” she whispers dangerously, hair thrown back wild to the breeze. “I won’t _allow you_ the mercy of a second mistake.”

~

She wraps a hand around his throat, squeezing not too hard but with enough pressure that he knows to feel threatened. Her other hand slides into his dark hair, and she attempts not to marvel at how soft and silky and how he would sound if she clutched at it brutally and desperately under the throes of passion.

“Tell me, little vampire. Do you understand?” she asks with an iron-edge to her tone.

When he simply nods, she tugs at his hair punishingly, yanking his head up until his eyes meet hers. “Do you understand, little vampire?” she repeats slowly.

He releases a low whine, one of both pain and ecstasy, deep from his throat, and something in her stomach melts warm and velvety, and suddenly, she can smell her own arousal.

“Yes,” he rasps, voice stone scraping against stone. “I understand.”

Releasing his throat from her grip, Hermione hovers over him, leaning closer until her face is inches from his own. “Does this,” she yanks savagely at his locks, “arouse you?” Her murmur is quiet and seductive, voice slippery and softer and sweeter than any caramel he has likely every tasted.

He bites back a noise of pleasure, and she frowns. Tugging harder at his hair, she orders decisively, “Let it out. I want to hear every noise I draw from those gorgeously-pouty lips of yours?”

She begins to pepper delicate kisses down his chiseled jawline before sucking hard, the blossoming purple and blue fading as she begins to descend down the pale expanse of his neck. In the perfect curve of where his neck meets his shoulder, she nips at his flesh, albeit with her blunt human teeth, and he makes a noise of surprise in the back of his throat, stiffening.

“Calm.” She soothes the angry, red skin with a tender brush of her lips and another suck at the skin of his throat.

Raking the tips of her ivory fangs against his raised collarbone draws both a beautiful crimson from a puckered wound and a loud moan of appreciation from Tom that sends a twinge of pleasure to the pit of her stomach.

Savagely, Hermione fits the navy cotton of his shirt in her hands and tears it straight down the middle to reveal his wry yet muscular chest, pocket-marked by handfuls of faint scars. Her hands wander down his chest, tracing his skin with the blunt edge of her nail and stealing a hiss from his lush mouth.

It makes her smirk.

She raises a delicate, ivory-skinned hand to brush against the side of his face with a gentle tenderness that bewilders the both of them. Hermione rolls her thumb over his lips, watching them part as he gasps.

Before his lips can press back together, she seizes them in a passionate open-mouthed kiss, hands working quickly against the stubborn button of his jeans.

Pusing the soft length of her body against his lean and sculpted one, gentle sloping curves juxtaposed with rock and hard angles, they fuck there in the open, vulnerable in their passion, lost in the heat.

When Tom collapses against the ground in exhaustion, several hours and rounds of hot, sweaty sex later, he murmurs in between unnecessary gasps of breath, “Let it not be said that a thousand years has not exaggerated your stamina.”

Hermione grins toothily in satisfaction, hair ruffled beyond repair, as she wiggles her shorts up her legs and buttons her black shirt back up. She pulls her hair from her face, but that is about the best she can do for it; it is frizzed and sticking out like tendrils of a broom.

“Here.” She bites into her wrist with a crunch, tilting her upper arm so that the droplets of blood fall into the proximity of Tom’s mouth. “You don’t want to die because of the carelessness of a tiny scratch from my fangs.”

He licks his lips almost seductively, swallowing the blood, and tangles a lazy hand into her hair and pulls as she hisses.

“Your hair is beautiful. Better this way,” he states drowsily, slumped to the grass.

“Thanks.” She ducks her head out of his grip. “Now, I wish we had more time, but alas,” she sends his body a mournful glance, “I must get going.”

“Wait!” he cries in sudden shock. “What about my shirt? You tore it!” He gestures to his naked chest.

She giggles in response as she speeds away. “You’ll find a way to deal with it.”

In her wake, Tom slumps back to the ground and groans, this time in absolute frustration.

~

Somehow, he makes his way back to the Malfoy Manor and into his bedroom without disturbance.

The soreness in his weary muscles and the bruises and cuts down his back are quickly disappearing, one of the perks of his vampire healing.

A scorching-hot shower soothes his battered body and wipes all thoughts of fatigue from his mind. Feeling refreshed, he towels off his hair, pats himself dry, and pulls on a soft cotton singlet and loose trousers.

Downstairs, he realizes that the opulent Manor is empty, has been since he arrived home.

Pansy and Abraxas are off playing the happy high school sweethearts, attending Calculus classes and pretending that Abraxas isn’t a bloodsucker and Pansy isn’t a wanted, walking blood bag for the same hybrid who had fucked Tom to the brink of unconsciousness only hours ago and that they can play dodgeball in the gym.

Associating with humans Tom can understand.

 _Pretending_ to be human, he cannot.

He grabs a chilled blood bag from the cooler the Malfoys keep hidden in the parlor and settles into a cushy armchair facing the handsome door.

The blood is slightly sweet and refreshing on his tongue, though it does not carry the same addictive, velvety texture and flavor of blood straight from the vein or _Hermione_ ’s.

Her blood is imbued with ancient magic, magic that crackles and explodes in his mouth so addictively that he almost feels the supernatural tether he felt as a wizard.

Just a few drops seems to have ignited a raging bloodlust that will never be sated.

Tom has drained the blood bag of all about a few final dregs of liquid when the door opens and in marches the troop, surrounded by an air of frenzy and concern.

“So where were the seven of you?” he asks conversationally.

There is a sharp gasp and several hisses of surprise as the group turns around to discover Tom perched in an armchair, arms crossed slackly across his chest.

“Tom!” Pansy cries in relief, her wrinkled forehead straightening out. “Where were you?”

“I’ve been around.” He gestures sluggishly with his right hand.

Draco frowns in blatant disapproval. “Riddle, we upheaved the entire forest looking for you, thinking that the Granger bitch had buried you alive.”

Suddenly, Tom is more alert now, his spine stiff and eyebrows furrowed in bewilderment. “Wait, what?”

Daphne scowls, tucking fiery strands of hair behind her ears with jerky movements. “I told Pansy about seeing you with the Original hybrid. I didn’t want to risk anything.” But a glance in her hazel eyes reveals her hidden fear. She was afraid of being unable to protect the humans in the bar if anything broke out; she believes herself to be the weakest in the group, being the only true human.

Daphne is right in her fear. Pansy and her group of close-knit friends, all familiar with each other since before the Malfoys showed up in town, all turned out to one supernatural creature or another. Pansy is a mystical shadow of someone else who wore her face two hundred years ago, a doppelganger, and she is protected by her blood that Hermione deems precious. Astoria, Daphne’s baby sister, is a fully-trained witch. Blaise is a magically-enhanced vampire hunter, somehow still best friends with Draco. Theo is another kind of wizard, a Siphoner who can absorb magic. Even, Teddy, orphaned as a young child and taken in by the Malfoys’ now-dead great-niece Andromeda, had been a werewolf before he had been sired by Hermione.

Daphne is the weakest. There is nothing she can do about that.

But Tom had been there to make sure that Hermione stayed in control.

“Is it that you doubt my capability to not provoke a vampire ten times my age?” His tone is dipping into borderline aggression. He has no idea why he is feeling offended; his friends were simply worried for him. “Or do you really believe that she is a demented lunatic who attacks people unprovoked and without reason?”

“No,” squeaks Astoria, taking a half-step back, and Tom realizes that somehow his fangs have been bared and his face is no longer human.

He blinks slowly, breathing in and out through the side of his mouth. His face returns to normal, eyes charcoal-grey again.

His friends are posed defensively, Astoria lifting a hand out as if prepared to fling him back with a spell, and Draco and Abraxas are centered cautiously in front of Pansy.

Pansy herself is undeterred though. “What’s wrong with you, Tom?” she whispers softly in worry. “You haven’t been acting like yourself ever since you were bit.”

“I’m fine.” He clears his throat with a gruff cough. “I need some air.” Quickly, he stumbles out the door and takes off blindly in a sprint at inhuman speed.

~

Somehow, he ends up near Hermione’s mansion, again, this time directly below a large balcony.

He cocks a head, listening for undead heartbeats.

_One._

The same one he spent the entire afternoon listening to.

Hermione’s.

Encouraged by the practically-empty mansion, Tom glances up at the balcony where the French doors are opened invitingly.

He bends his knees, eyeing the distance, and _leaps_ , experiencing a moment of soaring through air before he lands on the balcony with a muffled tap.

Tom enters the room, a study, evident from the armchairs and bookshelves scattered across the room, and finds Hermione perched on an ancient chaise, facing the door, nose buried in a battered book.

“Took you long enough,” she remarks dryly, quirking a single eyebrow at him without withdrawing from her book.

“How did you know?”

“Heard you coming,” Hermione murmurs distractedly. “Baby vampires are bulls in a china shop compared to Originals.”

When he snorts with inelegant laughter, she finally gazes up at him, pink-painted lips tugging up into an easy-going smile.

“Now, it is very good that you are here. I wanted to show you something.”

“What?” he asks inquisitively as she rises from her seat and strides to a tall bookcase in the corner of the large room, carefully retrieving a thick leather-bound book from the tallest shelf.

It’s a grimoire, a witch spell book, embroidered with two large _L_ s in a flourish on the front cover. The crest is unfamiliar to him.

“Whose grimoire is that?”

She shrugs causally. “Luna Lovegood. She was a witch in the fifteen century. I turned her and took her on as my lover for a few centuries. We had a small falling-out over my werewolf curse, and she disappeared the very next day. I always wondered what happened to her.” Quickly yet with great care, Hermione flips through the pages of the grimoire, searching for a specific spell. She hums under her breath some classical score from a composer unfamiliar to Tom.

He takes it upon himself to observe her study.

It is well-sized with airy windows and arched ceilings, famous and well-detailed paintings hung around the walls. Some are large and gory; others depict scenes of gorgeous nature. All paintings are varied in style, depending on the artist’s touch.

He gasps unintentionally, stepping up to a painting but not able to bring himself to trace the paint with his fingers. “Is this Munich’s _The Scream_ , 1910 tempura on cardboard?” he asks, voice full of awe.

“Yes,” she answers as she continues to search through the grimoire.

“But this was stolen in 2004 and eventually found…” He takes a daring glance at Hermione.

She is smiling mischievously, eyes twinkling. “Who says it was ever returned to the Munich Museum?”

Immediately, he frowns with disapproval. “You stole an artistic masterpiece?!”

Hermione scowls slightly. “No. That is a reproduction. A very good reproduction, though it is not the original. I would never take the painting from its home. I am not a barbarian.”

“Agree to disagree,” Tom murmurs huskily, stiffening when he realizes that Hermione heard him. He waits for her to flash over to him and pin him to the wall.

Instead, she chuckles, and her laugh is like melted chocolate and the most beautiful music, all wrapped up in one. He wishes to bottle the sound as a reminder that not all parts of Hermione are as ugly as her vampire reputation.

Finally, she calls in triumph, “Found it.”

Tom’s eyes are drawn back to her as she hunches over the grimoire, clutching a loose sheet of crinkled, yellow paper. “Found what?”

She clears her throat to explain. “Centuries ago, Luna and I composed a spell to temporarily deprive witches of their magic. Naturally, Luna convinced me to create its counterpart, a spell to return witches’ magic to them. Of course, it won’t be a perfect fit, considering you are a vampire, but I am sure a little threatening will be able to convince the Greengrass witch and the Nott siphoner to help me tailor it for you.”

His throat has gone dry, his heart thudding wildly in response. Somehow, he chokes out, “What are you doing?”

Hermione blinks up at him owlishly, face in a gaping expression. “I am trying to help you get your magic back.”

He forces the word from his clogged throat, walking to stand close to her. “Why?”  
“Because I like you. Because we share a connection. Because you were powerful as a wizard and will be nearly invulnerable as a vampire-witch hybrid. Because you will make an invaluable ally.” She shrugs again, this time nonchalantly. “Take your pick.”

Tom closes his eyes, tips his head back, and remembers.

He remembers the crackle of his magic below his skin, its heat across his bones, the heady ecstasy he felt with every spell, the thrum of hypnotic power low in his ears.

But he digs a little deeper into his memories and recalls the perpetual headaches, days where he was spasming on the floor in agony, attempting not to burn the orphanage down. Days where not even the slice of a blade across his skin could dull the hammering in his bones or vivid bruise made from where his magic fought to jump from his skin.

“No,” he tells her, brushing his nose lightly across her smooth cheek.

She shivers near him but understands immediately, recognizing the darkening of his grey eyes. With a nod, Hermione flashes from the room and down the expansive hallway.

He follows her into what he presumes to be her bedroom and pins her to the wall when she allows him to.

He brushes his lips _once, twice, thrice_ against her soft lips as she breathes out against his chin, her eyelashes fluttering slightly. Tom licks his lips to taste the faint salt of her lips before seizing them again with a snarl, her hands clutching the elegant curve of his neck before moving to his lower back.

~

Calmer and focused, Tom prepares to face Draco, Abraxas, and Pansy again. With a single fist, he raps on the double doors of the Manor once, the sound of the knock reverberating solemnly around the empty porch.

One door opens, a light-haired head peeking out cautiously. Finally spotting Tom when the younger vampire coughs dryly, Abraxas grimaces, a slight rosy blush blooming across his tan skin.

“Sorry,” Abraxas says in embarrassment, pulling the door towards him to create a gap wide enough for Tom to squeeze through.

All Tom can do is grunt in reply.

Stepping into the parlor, he hears the rapid beat of a fragile human heart approaching before Pansy is facing him.

“Tom.”

Keeping his eyes trained on the ground, Tom can hear the amplified sound of Pansy swallowing nervously. She is obviously hesitating on what to say.

To spare his friend, Tom speaks first, “Look. I understand that you were concerned for me, considering that I had just recovered from a noxious werewolf bite before meeting up with a person who could bite me again. But, if you had forgotten, she was also the cure to the bite and had healed me before.”

Slowly and guilty, Pansy meets his gaze, still unable to reply.

Abraxas buts in suddenly. “It’s not that we didn’t trust you or that we consider Granger a soulless monster, but, before you speak again, consider this,” he looks pleadingly at Tom, “Pansy has spent her entire life in tragedy. Her parents died, and then, I, her boyfriend, was revealed to be a bloodsucking beast. _And then_ , she finds out that her face was never originally ever hers, and, because of that, the oldest vampire of all time is coming after her to sacrifice her and later drain her of her blood. She was terrified of Granger. You are her friend and were spending time with the Original. You cannot fault Pansy for fearing for you.”

Tom glances over to Pansy who has shrunken on herself, eyes watering and lip trembling.

“All I have now, Tom, are my friends,” she explains in a shaky voice, “and I just want to be able to keep them safe. We already lost Teddy. I don’t want to lose you to.” Big, fat tears fall from her hazel eyes, rolling down her cheeks, rounded with baby fat.

Tom attempts to ignore the twinging in his heart. Instead, he clamps down on the emotional part of his brain and sighs. “Pansy,” he begins gently, “I can understand how you feel, having been orphaned and isolated my entire life. However, I can also sympathize with Hermione. I understand what she’s been through, and our lives have been too similar for me to ignore her perspective.”

Pansy stares up at Tom with puzzled eyes. Behind her, Abraxas is frowning.

Tom continues, “I never told any of you this, but when I was human, I was a wizard. A Gaunt wizard,” he ignores Abraxas’ gasp, “and, before I turned twelve, my magic was sealed away from me. Everyone feared that I was an abomination because of the bastard blood that ran through my veins. Though I accepted my lack of magic years ago, if I had the opportunity then, I would have found a way to unlock my magic. Similarly, Hermione’s wolf nature was sealed off the moment she came to terms with it. She has spent almost ten lifetimes trying to unlock it; hence, it is understandable that she wishes to surround herself with supernatural creatures like her.” As Abraxas gapes at him, Tom makes his final point. “But, she is going about this all the wrong way.”

After unbearable moments of silence, Pansy finally replies, “Thank you. Thank you for telling me this. I understand.”

“Besides,” Abraxas booms as he places a heavy hand on Pansy’s shoulder, brushing a tear away from her cheek with a gentle thumb, “you can serve as our little vampire distraction, keeping the hybrid far too occupied to threaten Pansy.”

Tom chuckles, but the sound gets caught in his throat and emerges a gruff cough. He attempts to smile reassuringly at his friend.

“Glad that was over,” Draco states dryly as he appears from the study, Tom knowing that he had been there the entire conversation. “I need a drink. Tom?”

“Coming.” Now, he laughs genuinely and follows the other Malfoy to the kitchen.

~

Three days pass uneventfully before Tom sees Hermione Granger again. He simply does not seek her out, nor does she appear to seek him out.

Instead, Tom awakens to gentle kisses being pressed across his jawline and down to his clavicle.

In his sluggish state, he moans quietly, stretching under the lavished attention he is receiving.

“Tom. Tom, darling, time to get up.”

There is a feminine voice with a lilting accent whispering softly in his ear.

As much as Tom desires to comply to the voice, he does not. He turns and burrows deeper into his blanket.

“Tom,” the voice repeats singsongingly.

Tom decides that he rather likes the way this voice says his name, pronouncing it as others do not.

Velvety lips brush across his pulse point, and then there is a sharp pain in his neck as the skin breaks, but that is soon gone.

Fangs drain his blood slowly, and he can feel the tug as his blood is called away from his slow-beating heart.

The sensation is so euphoric that he moans again, but louder. His eyes flutter open, and Hermione flashes with a bloody smile.

“I wondered when you would get up.” She smirks slightly before continuing. “Now, get yourself out of this bloody bed before I drag you out of it.”

“Why?” he whispers, mouth cracked and dry, a slight burning taking on in his veins.

As he slides out of bed, the burning turns into a full-blown _fire_ in his blood, and Tom stumbles.

“Ooh.” Hermione winces empathetically. “That’ll be the bite kicking in. You have been exposed to werewolf venom too often, and it is making you slightly more susceptible to it for the time being. Do not worry; you will heal.”

After a quick feed off Hermione’s arm, she says, “Now, go get dressed.”

“Why?” he repeats.

“So we can go. There is something I must show you.”

“Fine.” Heading towards his bathroom, Tom begins to pull his shirt over his head, muscles in his back flexing as he does. “I’m going to shower.”

“Wonderful. I’ll join you.”

He doesn’t turn back, but Tom hears the sound of a dress being unzipped and fabric hitting the floor.

Hermione’s footsteps echo loudly as she follows him into the shower stall.

~~

She flips through his sketchbook, sitting cross-legged on his bed, while Tom stands in front of his closet, searching for clothes.

“What should I wear?” he asks her.

“Something causal,” Hermione tells him, humming under her breath. “Wear dark green. It is a handsome color and suits you well,”

“Thanks,” Tom says slowly, retrieving a dark green sweater and pulling it over his head. “How did you even get in the Manor? Where is everyone?”

“The paler Malfoy brother is at school,” Hermione sneers the words, “with Parkinson and your other friends. The other one, Draco, I believe, is sulking at a bar.”

“Oh.”

They settle into silence.

Some moments later, comes the question: “Who is this?”

“Who?” he hums distractedly, straightening out his folded shirts.

“Him?” Hermione points to a page in his sketchbook.

Tom takes a seat next to her, bed sinking and creaking under his newly-added weight.

He traces over the features of the sketch, high cheekbones, aristocratic nose, hollowed grey eyes, dark hair in teased waves that surrounded the face, all done in light charcoal.

“That,” he replies slowly but confidently, “was the first love of my life.” A soft smile full of yearning makes its way onto his face as he talks. “His name was Sirius Black, and I met him only months after I was turned. Sirius was three centuries old; he was a young English nobleman who ran into trouble when attempted to stop a vampire from feeding on a child.”

Hermione winces; even she had morals that included never harming a child. “What was he like?” she asks curiously.

“Sirius was, well,” Tom sighs, eyes lightening as he recalls past memories, “he was a presence that demanded to be felt. He would command attention in any room he was in. Sirius was honorable, loyal…he loved dogs. Wherever we lived, we always had one large, black shaggy dog as a pet.” He laughs delightedly. “I remember that our first one was named Padfoot after Sirius’ childhood pet. He was also mischievous and sarcastic; he loved playing pranks. Sirius could be extremely vicious when needed to be.”

~

Hermione attempts to ignore the burning sensation at the pit of her stomach. Not arousal but jealousy.

 _Jealousy_ , she wishes to scoff.

She is the Original hybrid. There is no basis for her to feel jealous over a lesser vampire who has long left Tom.

“Overall,” Tom continues enthusiastically, ignorant of Hermione’s emotions, “Sirius was, at heart, a kind and courageous soul. He found me on a feeding rampage in an alley and took me under his wing. We fell in love and were together for almost three and a half decades.”

“Where is he now?” she rasps softly.

Immediately, Tom’s face falls, returning to a neutral expression. “Fifty feet underground.” At Hermione’s inquisitive stare, he elaborates, “He was staked by an amateur vampire hunter. He had been trying to protect me. I spent five years with my humanity turned off. Draco and Abraxas were the ones who found me and convinced me to turn my emotions back on. We’ve been friends since 1985.”

“Oh,” she whispers softly, regretful of how she had felt moments previous. “I am sorry for your loss.”

Tom shrugs sadly, voice hollow. “Life moves on.” He gulps, swallowing slowly. “What about you,” he begins gently, “have you ever been in love?”

Hermione whips her face away at a speed at which her hair would have whacked Tom in the face if it was not already secured in a messy top-knot. She shutters her emotions, attempting to keep control over her heart. “Once,” she admits so softly that Tom would not have heard it if not for his vampire senses.

She watches Tom’s reaction to her news and would have otherwise missed his flinch. She frowns slightly.

“The greatest one I ever loved was a woman named Nithya Malik.” Hermione bites the inside of her cheek when Tom cocks his head in curiosity. “She was a dancer of Indian classical, a style called Kathak. When the British banned Kathak, Nithya rebelled and kept dancing because she had devoted her life to the art form. She was eventually sentenced to be executed; however, I admired her talent and turned her. Soon, I fell in love with her. We spent a hundred and fifty years together. But then…”

She presses her lips together, trying to contain the melancholic emotions that threatened to bubble out. Wetness forms in the corner of her vision, and Hermione realizes that she has begun to cry. “I should have recognized the signs,” she sniffles, “but I couldn’t. I was too blindly in love with her.”

“What happened?” Tom asks gently.

She wipes her eyes, and when she speaks again, her voice is strong and steady. “Nithya always had major depression, which only amplified as a vampire. She had managed to gain relative control over her illness; she battled back by dancing. But then she stopped dancing for about five years. I should have recognized the signs,” her voice cracks, “and on our anniversary in 1980, I woke up to Nithya’s screams. She cried that she could not take it anymore, so she slid off her daylight ring and allowed herself to burn to death.”

“I kept Sirius’ ring,” Tom admits quickly.

“And I kept Nithya’s.” Hermione dries her tears, and Tom is struck strangely by the sudden whiplash of her mood. “We have both lost so much. Let us enjoy the day. I have loads planned, so we should head out now.” Her tone is stable, almost cheerful, now.

“Yes…we should,” he agrees slowly, shrugging on his well-worn black leather jacket.

~

He watches her carefully, keeping pace by her side as they stroll through the large city.

Hermione turns heads in her sleeveless, loose yellow dress, legs going on for miles before they remain encased in brown wedges. Her hair floats in the slight summer wind, having been let loose from its bun, and Tom wonders how she is not spitting hair from her mouth at the month.

They grab a quick, mundane brunch from a lovely, quaint café that Tom has visited before, enjoying excellent coffee. Tom learns about Hermione’s affinity for chocolate, something they share.

Ducking in and out of shops, they enjoy themselves as time passes quickly. Tom picks up a new suede-bound sketchbook that he found unusual; Hermione bought herself a remarkable fountain pen that she claimed was from the eighteenth century.

As the sky draws nearer to sunset, they find themselves heading back to their small town.

The light glints off Hermione’s hair, making it appear almost dark blond. Her skin glows under the rapidly-dimming sun, and it is so at odds with the darkness Tom has heard to be inside of her that when she somehow trips, breaking a heel, he catches her in his arms in a completely clichéd move.

“What?” she giggles, accent even more pronounced. His arms make her feel slightly more secure, and when he releases her and she steps back, she notices the loss of warmth immediately.

“Nothing.”

Instead, he tugs her towards him, pressing her body to a smooth wall with gentleness, and caresses her face. Tom’s thumb brushes over her cheekbone in soft strokes before he leans in and kisses her with uncharacteristic gentleness.

Hermione sighs, slinging her arms around his neck and pulling him closer.

They kiss for long moments, and when they break apart reluctantly, Hermione murmurs into Tom’s lips, “Come out with me. Let me take you on a date.”

“What?” he stutters for a moment. “Where?”

“I’ll take care of that. Tomorrow night. Dress formally, black tie. That is all I can and will tell you at this moment. I will pick you up.”

He responds with another soft kiss, a brush of his lips against hers.

~

Draco is waiting on his bed when Tom slips back inside the room. The other Malfoy raises an expectant eyebrow at the younger vampire.

Unnerved, Tom asks nonchalantly, “Where’d the others go?”

“Out for dinner.” Draco shrugs, not caring.

Then, in a quick blur, he is standing in front of Tom, their faces inches apart, and Tom’s heart begins to beat a tad faster as adrenaline kicks in.

He can feel the veins under his eyes attempt to rise and his fangs pricking at his gum, begging to be unleashed. Tom forces the monster away.

“You’re fucking the hybrid, aren’t you?” Draco asks in a manner that is neither accusatory nor particularly-interested.

Blood rushes to his face, and his fangs drop, gleaming and sharp in the darkness of the Manor. “What are these allegations based on?” Tom counters smoothly, conversing around the fangs in his mouth.

“Save the routine, Riddle,” Draco snarls. “I don’t give a fuck what you do or who you sleep with.”

“Abraxas would.”

That only makes the Malfoy angrier. “Abraxas is naïve. He thinks that he is protecting Pansy. He is not. I can protect her, and I will. I love her more than _he does_!”

“Not my problem,” Tom drawls in boredom.

“Yes,” Draco agrees with rage. “It is not your problem, and it never will be, just as your fling with Granger will never be my problem. I don’t care if you are _bloody in love with her_ , but if you or she attempts to harm Pansy or comes even close to that, I will personally rip your heart out.”

“Understood.” Tom bows his head.

Draco ignores him, instead examining Tom’s expression. The Malfoy gapes. “ _Wait_ ,” he breathes in amusement, “you are falling in love with her, aren’t you? You are falling in love with her, and you damn well don’t understand what to do. Of all the convoluted love stories in the world, yours had to be with the biggest monster on this planet.”

“She is not a monster,” Tom growls. “Well, not completely.”

Draco backs away in defense. “I don’t care, mate, though I wish you luck with that. I can’t even imagine it, the screwed-up vampire and the villainous Original hybrid.”

He slowly steps out of the room, leaving Tom to stew in Draco’s true realization.

He is _falling_ for Hermione Granger, the Original hybrid.

~

At exactly the time Hermione had mentioned, Tom is ready and waiting by the door. Thankfully, everyone has gone out to dinner again, so it saves him several awkward explanations.

_Hey, you know the monstrous vampire who wants to kill our beloved friend Pansy? Well, yeah, she asked me out on a date, and I said yes._

Tom’s phone lights up with a notification.

Hermione is outside, waiting in the limousine a lesser vampire is chauffeuring for them. She steps out to greet Tom with an almost joyful expression.

“Well, you look absolutely dashing,” she croons, taking in his classic tux and slicked-back hair.

“You don’t look too bad yourself.”

Hermione chuckles. “Please, I look stunning, and you agree. I heard the hitch in your breathing when you first saw me.”

“Well, you do have the better vampire senses,” he reminds her.

She _is_ right; she is stunning tonight, though she is gorgeous every day.

She dons a simple burgundy gown that flows to the ground, with strategic cutouts at her torso, and hair teased back into a pinned-up hairstyle, but the elegance and confidence with which she wears the dress could put other women to shame.

As he slides into the limo, he cannot help but ask her, “Where are we headed tonight, love?” In the front seat, he can see the driver winces at the term of affection, clearly expecting Tom to be beheaded.

Hermione pulls him in for a close kiss, smudging her lipstick and making her lips appeared bruised, only heightening her beauty.

“To a gala.”

“For what?” The question slips out.

“For me, for my future hybrids, for everyone I have sired in my lifetime. We are the guests of honoree at one of the biggest supernatural events of the decade.”

Tom gulps uneasily. “Brilliant then. Warn a vampire next time, won’t you?”

She laughs causally again.

                                                                             ~          

They enter the ballroom, Tom besides Tom, and all heads turn towards them.

Murmurs begin to reach Tom’s ears, questions of _who is he_ and _why is he with her_ , all coming from hundreds of werewolves, witches, and vampires assessing Tom.

There are _so_ many people, so many undead beating hearts, or mortal living ones, and Tom begins to feel a little overwhelmed.

There is a reason that he doesn’t surrounded himself with supernatural creatures; it’s hard enough to trust a handful. Trusting hundreds is out of the question/

“Okay?” Hermione murmurs huskily in his ear, though they are both aware that all vampires and some older werewolves are eavesdropping.

“It is a _tad_ bit nerve-wracking, yeah,” he admits, his voice quieter than a whisper.

Once again, not that it does any good.

“It’s fine. You’ll be fine,” she says reassuringly, raising a hand to the crowd.

Immediately, they begin cheering and applauding.

A man’s voice booms overhead, amplified by a spell. “There she is,” he announces enthusiastically. “Hermione Granger, the Original hybrid. Our savior, our sire, our leader.”

“That’s Neville,” she sighs. “He was one of my first sires. I’ll introduce you to him later.”

“Leader?” Tom asks in amusement.

Hermione laughs, the beautiful sound broken up by the chatter of the crowd. “Look around you, Tom. All these witches, vampires, werewolves, they’re all loyal to _me_. They are all part of an elite supernatural society called Gryffindor. We protect and hide the supernatural community from the humans, and if anyone steps out of line or exposes us, we govern their punishment.”

“So, basically, a supernatural police force?” He raises a daring, dark brow at her.

“Yes,” she agrees, smiling before continuing, “a supernatural police force. My brothers and I founded Gryffindor, but Harry and Ron abandoned them without a thought, believing them to have turned too violent, too reckless. _But, I, yours truly? I never abandoned the Gryffindors. No, I stayed by their side as their guiding force, as their leader!_ ” Her voice rises to a roar, and the crowd breaks into cheer, showing their approval.

Tom watches as they gaze at Hermione with love, with admiration, with loyalty. Something tightens in his chest.

“Welcome to the 858th Annual Gryffindor Gala,” Hermione cries loudly. Turning to Tom, she mutters softly, “Stay by my side, won’t you?”

He sticks by her when they melt into the crowd.

~

“’er’ninny,” a heavily-accented voice booms across the ballroom, drawing Hermione and Tom away from a conversation with a werewolf. “How wonderful to see you again?”

A man wraps Hermione in a hug, squeezing her for a long moment before releasing her. Hermione stumbles backwards, gasping for breath.

“Viktor!” she says, lips pursing into a slightly-amused grin. “How long has it been?”

“A decade.” Viktor blinks slowly, turning to glance at Tom. “Who are you?” There is no malice in his tone, only genuine curiosity.

“Tom, Tom Riddle.” Tom reaches to shake the hand that Viktor offers to him.

“Viktor Krum.”

Viktor steps back, and Tom finally gets a good look at him.

Viktor is a thin man, sallow-skinned with a large curved nose and thick black eyebrows. He reminds Tom of an overgrown bird of prey.

“I met Viktor in 1492. He was already a vampire. We befriended each other,” Hermione interrupts gently.

“Befriended?” Viktor laughs. “She saved my life.” He places a heavy hand on Tom’s shoulder, and the younger vampire stiffens his spin, attempting not to flinch. “Hermione here smuggled me from a prison that witches had set up. They were about to attempt to desiccate me with magic, a lethal spell for non-Original vampires.”

“To be fair,” she says, “I was only ever trying to stop the witches. Saving you was stopping the witches.”

Viktor laughs heartily, and Tom finds himself chuckling.

Viktor suddenly straightens, “Oh, wait. There’s Cho.” He turns to Tom. “Pleasure meeting you, but I must catch Cho.” He darts into the crowd.

“Who’s Cho?” Tom asks in confusion.

“Cho Chang,” Hermione tells him, “was a Chinese princess, turned about six centuries ago. Viktor wants to court her, but Cho will never let him. They have a little cat and mouse game going on.”

Despite him, Tom smiles. “Now what?”

“Now, you meet everyone else.”

~

Several hours have passed, and Tom has met Parvathi and Padma Patel, two Indian twin vampires who were turned by Hermione’s dead love Nithya, Minerva McGonagall, a witch from eighteenth century Scotland who has used magic to suspend her aging, and Fleur, a French princess from 1002.

People flit in and around the ballroom, dancing, sitting, chatting; however, Tom and Hermione have stayed off the dance floor.

Hermione hums as she searches the crowd. “Where is Neville?”

“Right here,” comes a deep voice from behind them, and they both whirl around quickly.

Neville Longbottom, as Tom presumes the man to be, is tall and muscular, with a square jaw, hazel eyes, and dark hair.

“You’ve change your hair back,” Hermione laughs as she spots him.

Neville grins crookedly. “Being a blond didn’t suit me; it reminded me too much of my mother.” He sticks out a hand for Tom to shake. “Neville Longbotttom.”

Tom’s grip is firm and steady on their handshake. “Tom Riddle.” After a moment of pause, he asks, “So, how do you know Hermione?”

“The Church, the Roman Catholic Church,” Neville corrects himself, “wished to execute me for my ‘heretical’ studies of biology. Hermione rescued me and turned me in 1211.”

“Neville was my first sire,” she explained. “Before him, only Harry and Ron had turned people. I felt pity for Neville who was sentenced to death for only doing what he loved.”

“So here I am!” Neville declares with a grin. “Second-in-command of the Gryffindor.”

“Neville has always remained loyal to me.” Hermione scowls. “The same cannot be said for my brothers.”

Neville shrugs. “Eh, family’s overrated. My grandmother, who had taken me in after my parents died, left me to be executed. Old bat claimed I was a disgrace to God and the family. Friends are what make a truer family. What about you, Tom?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Tom shakes his head. “I’ve been orphaned since day one.”

The other man winces empathetically. “Sorry, that sucks.” Clasping a gentle hand on Tom’s back, he asks, “Who turned you?”

“German Nazi scientists from World War II,” Tom deadpans.

Interest lighting up his eyes, Neville leans in with curiosity. “That must be one _hell_ of a story,” he breathes.

“Well-” Tom begins before Hermione interrupts him.

“Alright, break it up. I need to go dance once on the ballroom floor before every one person out there wonders where the great Hermione Granger is.”

With a pleasant smile directed at Neville, Tom takes Hermione’s hand, brushing a gentle kiss upon her bare skin. “Of course, my lady. It would be my pleasure,” he croons in his light accent.

Hermione beams, still somehow managing to appear graceful, and leads Tom to the dance floor.

Neville watches them with a frown that quickly disperses into a slight smirk. “I’m happy for you, Hermione,” he mutters under his breath, knowing quite well that the two vampires will not be able to hear him through the crowd. “You are moving on after Nithya. I am proud of you.”

~

As Tom swirls Hermione in time to the beat of the music, he murmurs softly into Hermione’s ear, “All these people love you; you are their friend and their leader.”

“Yes,” she replies distractedly, tapping her feet rhythmically, “I have saved several of their lives or helped them.”

“Why?” he asks.

“Because I could,” she answers truthfully, without skipping a beat. “Because if I can ease their suffering and hurt in some way, then I will.”

“You are a good person underneath all of _your_ suffering,” Tom tells her decisively. “You are not a pure soul, but under everything, your soul is intact.”

“I am not a good person,” she rebuts sharply, almost stumbling in her step.

“Then why have you still not drained Pansy or kidnapped her?”

Hermione growls, “Because she is well-protected and safe, and I currently have no need for her blood.”

“Why not let her go then?” he questions, voice barely audible under the music.

“There are people out there, Tom, my enemies, who will come for me soon, and I won’t be able to protect my family. Ron and Harry may hate me, but I love them. I need a way to protect them and Edward,” she admits softly. “I will need an army. More hybrids. So I cannot just _let Pansy go_. I am sorry.”

“What about me?” Tom asks slowly.

“What about you?” There is confusion evident in her gorgeously-caramel eyes.

“ _I love you_ ,” he blurts out. “I love you, and I will stay by your side. Let us face your enemies head-on, together strongly. You don’t need Pansy or hybrids. The Gryffindors and I will fight to protect you.”

Hermione takes a sudden step back, shocked. Emotion bleeds into the confusion in her eyes, heartbreak, betrayal, disappointment. “I can’t do that,” she whispers. “I’m sorry.”

Armor enfolds his heart as he shudders with disappointment. He releases Hermione quietly, something that does not go unnoticed by Neville who is seated on the side of the ballroom. “I see,” he scoffs. “My confession truly means nothing to you.”

Apology is written on the delicate contours of her face. “No, Tom,” she cries softly, “I didn’t mean that…”

“No.” He turns his face from her, iron and something else sharp tinging his tone.

She scowls lightly. “You should go. The limo will take you home.”

“Good.”

She watches as he makes his way out of the ballroom, stride stuttering with anger.

~

Upon reaching home, he falls straight into bed and does not emerge for days. Neither Pansy nor Abraxas can draw him out.

Only some days later, when he hears a loud commotion down below, does Tom jolt out of bed and shuck on a shirt, flashing downstairs.

“What happened?” he breathes slowly, surveying the disaster.

“Teddy Lupin happened,” Draco tells him miserably, standing guard over his best friend’s body. “Theo and Lupin got in a fight. Theo almost completely siphoned the magic of Lupin’s hybridism. Lupin almost desiccated immediately, but he managed to rip of Theo’s throat.”

“He’s refusing vamp blood,” Blaise adds grimly from where he leans against a wall, arms tight with tension.

Theodore Nott is lying on the same couch that Tom nearly died on months ago, comatose, neck wound bleeding out quickly to form a puddle on the floor.

The sight of the blood strangely does not make Tom hungry, only queasy.

Astoria Greengrass stands over his body, chanting in monotonous Latin, attempting to heal his wound. After a moment, she stops and opens her eyes in defeat. “It’s not working. Why is it not working?” she cries, panicked.

Tom can hear the faint heartbeat of Theodore Nott slow down, and he pinpoints the exact moment it stops.

“He’s dead,” Abraxas breathes softly, and besides him, Pansy bursts into tear.

Daphne rushes to the couch to press her head to the torso of her dead boyfriend, sobbing in grief.

Tom frowns; there was something off about Nott’s heartbeat. “He’s not dead!” Tom declares loudly.

“What?” Draco gapes at him.

Tom corrects himself. “I mean, he is dead, but he will wake up. He will be in transition.”

“How?” Daphne wails in between her tears.

“I don’t know,” he mutters. “You said Theo siphoned some of Teddy’s magic away, some of the spell that kept him alive. I’m guessing Theo still retained that when he died, and now he will transition into a vampire.”

Hours later, when Theodore Nott lurches back alive and latches onto Daphne’s offered wrist, sipping blood, they know Tom was correct in his assumption.

“How’d you know?” Draco asks.

“I didn’t,” Tom tells him calmly. “I guessed.”

Theo smirks with blood smeared around his fangs. “That was an awfully good guess.”

Suddenly, Abraxas is zooming into the parlor, crying, “Where’s Pansy? Has anyone seen Pansy?”

Daphne darts to her feet. “She went out to find some more blood bags. She claimed you were out.”

Abraxas moans wildly. “I know. But that was hours ago. She still hasn’t returned.”

“Because she was taken,” Astoria states grimly. “Pansy would have called by now. Someone has kidnapped her.”

“Only one person would!” Draco declares with a frown. “Granger has taken her. We’ll rescue her, put that bitch down.”

“We can’t just go up against a thousand-year-old vampire,” Daphne states in shock. “We’ll be slaughtered.”

As they plot how to take Hermione down, Tom gulps uneasily, flashing out of the Manor before anyone can see him.

~

He’s at the door of Hermione’s mansion, knocking and hollering. “ _Hermione! Hermione!_ ” he calls loudly. “I know you are in there.”

When no one replies, Tom shoves his body into the door, bouncing back to the ground. But eventually, after several tries, the door splinters, cracks, and crashes to the floor.

Tom stumbles through the hallway, eventually arriving in the main hall. “Pansy!” he gasps when he finds his friend tied to a chair, IV full of blood sunk into her arm.

She is pale but still conscious, staring at him with large, frightened eyes. She attempts to scream his name, but it is muffled by a cotton gag. Blood is being drained from her body, into a bag. There is a bag, full to the brim, already set on the table behind her.

Tom rips the gag from her mouth, and Pansy whimpers.

“Tom,” she whispers sadly, “you need to leave. It isn’t safe.”

“No,” he tells her. “I am here for you.”

There are footsteps sounding loudly on the wooden floor as Hermione strolls in, wiping blood from her chin. “Pity,” she says dully, spotting Tom, “I would have thought that you were here for me.”

He turns to face her and bites down on his tongue with extreme pressure.

This isn’t the Hermione he last saw, the one with heartbreak in her eyes and a quivering smile.

Her eyes are flat and dull, all trace of emotions wiped away. Her face is blank and slack. Only her lips curve into a wicked smirk, a trace of the predator hidden away in her stolid stance.

She is wearing a black button-up blouse, tucked into a tannish-brown skirt that reaches above her ankles, pointed black heels, and hair loose in waves down her back.

This is not Hermione Granger, the girl Tom fell in love with.

This is Hermione Granger, the Original hybrid.

His resolve hardens. “No. I actually did not come here for you.”

The Original sneers again.

“Let Pansy go,” he orders.

“Why? What will you do to me? You can’t do more than you have already done, lover boy.” Hermione laughs loudly and cruelly.

Pansy gasps. “Tom, what does she mean?” she asks slowly.

Hermione freezes in consideration. “Oh, your little friend Pansy didn’t know.” Her lips press together. “And to think all this time, I thought you were just a distraction sent by your friends.”

“I was never a distraction for you,” Tom tells her genuinely. “I chose what I did. Everything was real, at least for me.”  
“Tom,” Pansy repeats, tone hard with demand, “what does she mean?” Her eyes are fraught with confusion, darting between the two vampires.

Hermione turns to Tom, question in her eyes. “Do you want to tell her or should I?” When Tom does not respond, instead standing mutely, she continues, telling Pansy, “Tom here considers himself in love with me.”

Tom cannot stare Pansy in the eyes.

“Tom?” she asks shrilly. “Is this true?”

Still no response.

“Tom! Look at me. Is this true? Do you love her?”

Slowly, ashamedly, Tom raises his head to face his friend, whispering, “Yes.”

Pansy’s mouth is agape, and there is something fracturing in her eyes. She is torn between pity for her friend, betrayal, or fear.

 _Fear from Tom or Hermione_ , he wonders.

“Yes. I love her,” he repeats more loudly. “But you are still my friend, and I will save you.” Turning to Hermione, he orders, “Let her go!”

Hermione sighs, unmotivated. “I can’t, you see. Your Siphoner friend almost killed Edward. I consider Edward to be my family. Yet, your friend was turned, which I admit is not much of a punishment at the moment, but he will understand the loss of his magic soon. But, I realized that Edward is the only one like me. I need to create more hybrids, so they can protect us. I _need_ to have them.”

Suddenly, Tom is roaring. “ _You could have had me! I could have helped protect you_!”

She doesn’t blink, and Pansy is shrinking back in her chair.

Slowly, Hermione smiles, drawling, “You? You aren’t even a century old yet; you would be slaughtered on the spot, darling.”

Emotions threaten to overwhelm Tom: heartbreak, betrayal, fear, love, pride, loyalty to his friends. He lets them in.

The world around him tunes out into a muteness of sound and color, and he is unbalanced from his control.

When Tom returns to full awareness, he finds himself standing protectively in front of Pansy, a wooden chair leg in hand, poised over his heart. He is shouting at Hermione, “ _If you don’t agree to let her go, I will stake myself!_ ”

Hermione laughs, still calm. “You wouldn’t. You don’t have the guts, Riddle.”

“Don’t fucking test me! I will do it!” His hand is quivering around the stake, but his arm is steady.

Hermione takes a step towards him.

Tom reacts immediately, pushing the stake and allowing it to pierce the flesh of his chest. He winces, teeth gritting together in pain, sweat trickling down his forehead. He shakes with the effort to not rip it out. “Don’t come closer. Promise you will never come after Pansy again.”

Behind him, Pansy quivers. “Stop,” she whimpers. “Don’t try to do this, Tom. She will force you to kill yourself. I know you love her, but she doesn’t appear to love you.”

“At least then,” Tom grunts in concentration. “I will have died in the sake of my friend. Some honorable death.” He pushes the stake in a little deeper and snarls in pain.

Hermione’s smile fades. “There is no need for this,” she tells him. “Drop the stake, and we can talk this out.” There is something resembling to actual concern appearing in her eyes.

“There is no other way,” Tom growls, biting his lip to keep from crying out.

“I can’t let her go; you don’t understand.” Hermione glances away from him sadly, unable to look at Tom.

“I understand,” he says, gripping the stake a little more securely, angling it. Then he _stabs it down_ forcefully, screaming as the wooden tip grazes, eventually piercing, the top layer of his heart. His vision shakes, and Tom’s life flashes in front of his eyes. He _swears_ that he can see Sirius beaming at him, hear the lost love of his life’s hearty laugh.

 _Then_ Hermione’s there, pinning him to the ground, tearing the stake from his chest, forcing her blood down his throat until the wound heals. “Don’t ever do that again,” she growls at him, tears glimmering in her eyes. “I love you.” She leans down and brushes a soft kiss across his lips. “Go. Take Pansy and never come back.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice, wrapping an arm around a protesting Pansy and speeding away from the mansion.

~

He deposits Pansy at the Malfoys’ door and retreats to the forest to sketch out his misery upon paper.

When he returns to the Manor, Abraxas immediately pins him to a wall, vampire face on full display, hissing, “You betrayed us, you fucker!”

“Falling in love is not a betrayal,” Tom corrects Abraxas dully. “It’s a mistake. Look at your brother. You are so blindly in love with Pansy that you cannot notice that your brother is too.”

Surprised, Abraxas releases Tom and watches as his former friend stumbles back dejectedly. “Shit,” he curses. “She broke you. She broke _you_.”

“You can’t break what is already broken,” Tom replies tiredly.

“God.” Abraxas steps back. “Go. Leave here. Get your stuff and stay somewhere else for a while.”

Tom nods, and in a flash, he is standing back down with a duffle bag in hand, his entire life packed away, _again_.

Then, with a broken smile to Abraxas, he disappears from the Manor’s porch.

~

Hermione sits glumly on her balcony, sipping slowly, draining her bottle of its liquor.

It’s not enough; she needs to get drunk. Being only buzzed is too painful.

She hears footsteps behind her but does not turn to see who it is. “Go away, Ron,” she snarls into the darkness. “I’ve no time for your gloating.”

“I’m not Ron,” comes a voice that Hermione hasn’t heard in half a century.

“Harry,” she gasps, darting to her feet, though alcohol has slightly dulled her reflexes.

And there he is, her brother, standing there in the suit he was wearing when he was daggered, black hair a crow’s nest around his face, bottle-green eyes large and blinking owlishly.

“Hello, ‘Mione,” he greets causally, crossing his arms and leaning against the railing.

“How?” she cries, faltering. “Who? Why aren’t you-who undaggered you?”

“A little vampire by the name of Abraxas Malfoy. He found me. Claimed it was to protect his love.”

Hermione does not have time to process this, because the next second, there is a golden dagger sinking through her flesh and into her heart, and the world darkens around her as she stumbles to her knees.

As she fades, she believes that she hears Harry whisper, “This is temporary. Don’t worry. Next time will be better.”

~

There is knocking on the door of his motel room, and Tom flings it open, pulling on a shirt. “What?” he growls before he finally spots Pansy, jaw dropping.

“Tom,” she whispers, barging into the room. “I needed to tell you.”

“What?” Tom refuses to look at her.

“Someone is about to kill Hermione, and they will succeed. She can’t resist.”

He forces down panic rising in his heart. “So?” he asks nonchalantly, appearing unbothered.

“Tom,” Pansy says softly. “I know you love her. This is your chance. Rescue her and you can be together. You will never get another chance.”

Now, he turns to face her. “What’s going on?” Concern is evident in his tone.

“Abraxas undaggered Hermione’s other brother,” Pansy admits.

“And? So?”

“Harry had been daggered for plotting against her. He and his boyfriend were attempting to create a dagger that could neutralize Hermione. They succeeded, but, before they could use it, Hermione daggered Harry and killed the wizard, Cedric. But the dagger was already hidden, and when Harry was undaggered, he managed to dagger Hermione.”

Tom’s jaw tightens.

“Ron is on the other side of the globe, searching for the last White Oak stake, the only wood that can kill an Original. When he finds it, and you know he will, she will die, and you will lose another chance at happiness.” Pansy stares up at him, sadness curling her lips into a scowl. “Please, Tom. You have a chance; take it. Abraxas told me about Sirius. Let this be your second chance.”

“She’s your enemy,” Tom states stubbornly. “She wants to kill you.”

“Wanted to,” Pansy corrects him. “She never came after me again. And before she was a vampire, she was a young girl, just a little younger than me. She’s been lonely her entire life. It’s not her fault circumstance shaped her into a monster.”

“Why, Pansy?” he murmurs brokenly.

“Because, Tom,” she tells him pleadingly, “today I looked at myself and realized that I am in love with a monster. There is nothing I can do about that. I know Draco loves me too, but…” she trails off before continuing again. “I pretend to be tough. Before I meant Abraxas and my parents died, I used to be a bitch. Rude, mean, I believed myself to be superior to everyone. I had to be the Queen Bee in high school. Somehow, my friends remained friends with me.” She laughs hollowly.

Tom frowns. “And?”

“I changed. I changed, because I am human. Hermione can change too, because, a thousand years ago, she was still human. So take this chance at happiness. You may never get it again.”

“Where is she?” Tom whispers quietly.

“A warehouse somewhere close.” Pansy rattles off an address. “Astoria cast a locating spell using a comb we picked up from her mansion. No one was there.”

“Thank you.”

As Pansy walks out the door, she turns to face him one last time. “Tom,” she says.

“Yes?”

“This is likely the last time I will see you for a while.” She wraps him in a warm hug, and he sniffs the rosemary fragrance of Pansy’s hair.

“Goodbye.”

Then she walks out the door.

~

There is the sensation of something being pulled from her chest, and her blood being allowed to flow freely again.

Her body is still paralyzed, and she cannot feel her toes.

A wrist is pressed to her mouth, and wet liquid trickles into her mouth. Quickly, before she is fully aware, she is licking up the delicious liquid and sinks her fangs into the flesh.

Looseness begins to spread through her body, and she can feel her toes again. She crooks a finger as her vision begins to clear.

The owner of the wrist moans lightly, and awareness begins to return to her mind.

_My name is Hermione Granger._

_I am seventeen._

_I was born a thousand years ago._

_I was born in September._

_I am a vampire._

_I am also a werewolf._

_That makes me a hybrid, the Original hybrid._

_My brothers are Harry Potter and Ron Weasley._

She frowns. Something about that statement is wrong.

Her mind corrects itself.

_My brother Harry daggered me. He wants to kill me._

Her vision returns fully, and a familiarly-handsome face floats above her.

“Hey,” a voice croons. Someone, the same man, is stroking her hair with unusual tenderness. “Wake up.” He pulls his wrist away, and she whimpers.

 _I love Tom Riddle_.

“Hermione,” he repeats patiently.

“Tom,” she whispers painfully, throat cracking from the lack of blood. “What happened?”

“Your brother Harry daggered you,” Tom tells her with sorrow-filled eyes.

“I remember that.” She attempts to sit up, but Tom places a gentle, yet firm hand on her lower abdomen to stop her.

“Don’t,” he orders.

“How long ago was that?” she murmurs.

“It’s been a few months. Harry wants to stake you; we should move quickly. They found the last White Oak stake.”

Panic filters in through the fogginess in her mind, and she jolts upright, ignoring the tiny stabs of pain. “We need to leave,” she cries. “What are you doing here? Harry could kill you.”

“I love you. I promised I would stand by you and protect you.”

Her heart swells. “What about Edward?”

“Teddy?” Tom asks gently. “Ron ripped his heart out.”

Hermione knows that she should feel grief, but she only feels hollow at this point. “So, now what?” she whimpers.

“We run,” Tom replies.

“Where?”

“Anywhere you want,” Tom tells her. “Wherever you run, we run together. I will never leave your side.”

She reaches up to kiss him. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Tom pulls Hermione to stand. “Let’s go.”

“Let’s go to London first.” Hermione smirks joyfully up at Tom.

He grins slightly back. “Rome.”

“Paris,” she adds.

“Tokyo.”

Hermione shrugs. “Why not? We’ll be running for our lives; we can enjoy it.”

“At least we shall be together.”

“Together,” Hermione agrees.

~

When Harry arrives at the warehouse and finds the empty coffin, he kicks it angrily.

A scrap of paper flies out as the coffin skids, hitting the opposite concrete wall, and shatters.

He leans down to pick up the paper, a note.

 _Come and find us, brother_ it reads in Hermione’s familiar, neat script.

Below that, in unfamiliar print is written _You won’t find us_.

Hermione’s print again:

_I have a newly-repowered Gaunt wizard by my side; you will never find us._

Harry growls, crushing the note in his fist.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Read and review please.


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